


A Fire Repeated

by excelgesis



Series: Empire of Ashes (a markhyuck royalty au) [1]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Class Differences, Light Angst, M/M, Making Out, Prince!Mark, Princes, Servants, it gets pretty spicy but take it as you will, servant!donghyuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-20 01:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17612822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/excelgesis/pseuds/excelgesis
Summary: “None of this is right,” he breathes. His fingers curl inward, nails barely grazing Donghyuck’s neck. He doesn’t miss Donghyuck’s sharp intake of breath. “I want what I cannot have.”Donghyuck takes a step closer. “You’re royalty, your highness. There is nothing you cannot have.”





	A Fire Repeated

**Author's Note:**

> "But  
> if each day,  
> each hour,  
> you feel that you are destined for me  
> with implacable sweetness,  
> if each day a flower  
> climbs up to your lips to seek me,  
> ah my love, ah my own,  
> in me all that fire is repeated"
> 
> -Pablo Neruda, "If You Forget Me"

               Mark has lived a privileged life, and he knows it.

               Where peasants in the countryside had drought and famine, he had silk brocade and masquerades in the family ballroom. Where his father’s people had hardship and strife, he had velvet curtains and an on-call waitstaff.

               Mark has a good life.

               He knows it, and he doesn’t feel guilty.

               His hands trace the stem of an ornate wine glass as his father talks politics over the dinner table. His mother is uninterested, as always, and picks at her bowl of bread pudding with a frown. When a servant moves to take the bowl away, she waves them away and scowls.

               Mark is listening intently, his fingers still trailing over the wine glass as he nods along to his father’s words. Trade with the Eastern Province is going well, and has become a passing substitute for the Southern resources affected by the drought. Mark figures he will oversee the maintenance of their close relationship when he takes the throne. He’s eager to do it, his stomach fluttering in anticipation because he knows he’s much like his father. With a strong hand and a clear head, he knows what he wants, and he knows how to get it. The king is unshakeable – an oak tree in a hurricane – and Mark is right by his side.

               “Do you need anything else, your highness?”

               It’s a voice from his right, one that Mark doesn’t recognize, and he turns toward the new servant with mild curiosity. His father hadn’t told him that they had hired new waitstaff.

               The servant is young, no older than Mark himself, with tousled light hair and skin dipped in honey. Their gazes lock for half a minute, and Mark feels oddly unsteady, like he’s about to topple from his chair. The boy repeats his question, his voice like the bells commoners place on the seashore to guide water spirits, and Mark blinks. “Sorry?”

               The boy smiles then, just a demure curve of full lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I asked if you needed anything.”

               “Oh, uh—No, no, I’m fine. Thank you.”

               Across the table, Mark’s mother scoffs. “Did you just thank the help?”

               Mark hears the servant boy laugh under his breath before ducking his head and leaving the dining room. There’s a lump in his throat – _how strange_ – and he shakes his head. “S-Slip of the tongue. I didn’t know you hired new staff?”

               “Just yesterday,” his father says with a nod. “We needed help in the kitchen.”

               “Where is he from?”

               His mother raises an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”

               Mark frowns. “No. No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

♕

               He has a fitful night.

               There’s sunshine in his dreams, bright and blinding, and he can hear bells chiming on the shore. He wakes up with a headache and a bitter taste on his tongue.

               He slips out of bed and rings for the staff. A cup of tea would do him good, he reasons as he sits in his favorite armchair. They could start a fire in the hearth, too, since the morning chill was seeping across the flagstones and into his toes.

               There’s a knock at the door – louder than the hesitant tapping from the normal servant girl – and he calls for them to enter.

               It’s the new servant boy, and Mark feels his stomach twist. He’s carrying a tea tray, his hair is nearly in his eyes, and he’s still wearing the standard striped pajamas given to every servant. Mark had only seem them once before, when he had accidentally woken the groundkeeper’s son while on a nightly walk, but none of the staff would dare come to his room dressed in them.

               Mark clears his throat. “You come to my room dressed like that?”

               The boy raises his brows. “You woke me up. The sun hasn’t even fully risen.” He nods toward the window of Mark’s bedroom to accentuate his point.

               “The girl who usually brings me my tea is always properly dressed no matter how early I call her,” Mark says. He can’t seem to find it in his heart to be angry, but he does wonder if he should talk to his father about the boy’s obstinance.

               “Well I’m obviously not the girl who always brings your tea,” the boy replies, pursing his lips and setting the tray down on a side table. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” Mark doesn’t miss the purposeful omission of _your highness._

               Mark bristles then. How dare this servant, with skin like the sun and a voice like the sea, speak to him as if they were on equal ground? His heart does strange things in his chest as he gets to his feet. “You have no right to talk to me that way. You’re just--”

               “A servant?” The boy’s eyes linger on Mark’s face before travelling down to his feet. Mark feels his skin prickle at the weight of his stare. “And that means you’re better than me?”

               “Of course,” Mark splutters.

               The servant boy scoffs and takes a step closer. “Prove it, _your highness._ ”

               Mark instantly backs away. The boy scoffs again before turning and letting the door fall shut behind him.

               It’s only then that Mark realizes he forgot to have him start a fire.

♕

               Mark hardly sleeps for a week.

               The boy is always there, serving his family both lunch and dinner, and Mark feels his gaze like a lead weight. He wants to complain to his father, but then the boy appears in his dreams for three straight nights and he loses his nerve. It’s a delicate form of torture, like water trailing down his spine, but he grits his teeth against it and continues his duties as prince.

               “You look tired, your highness,” the boy comments one evening as he fills Mark’s glass with wine. There’s no bite to his words, it’s fully honorific, and Mark assumes it’s because his parents are watching. “I do hope you’re sleeping well.”

               “Don’t,” Mark hisses under his breath. “Don’t patronize me.”

               The boy knocks a fork to the ground and lets his lips ghost over Mark’s ear as he retrieves it. “Oh, your highness,” he whispers, and it’s dripping with sarcasm, “I would never.”

♕

               It’s another sleepless night, and Mark feels as if he’s on the verge of insanity. He pulls his cloak from its hook and secures it around his shoulders. Late-night walks always helped clear his mind, and he had heard the cleaning staff whispering about a full moon. He tugs open his bedroom door and nods to the guard stationed there before gesturing down the hallway. He and Lucas have had an unspoken agreement about these sorts of things for years, and Lucas merely nods and returns to his post.

               The night air is brisk, and Mark tugs his cloak around himself as he heads for the woods. There’s a pond on the other side that should reflect the moonlight nicely, and he figures his sleepless night should at least be spent in the presence of something beautiful.

               He’s at the pond’s edge when he sees him.

               The servant boy is there, skipping flat stones across the liquid silver. He looks ethereal like this, with the moonlight tangling in his hair, and Mark feels like screaming. He remembers the feeling of the boy’s breath against his ear. He shakes his head and throws his hood back. “What in the name of all that is holy are you doing out here?”

               The boy startles, and the stone he’s holding drops into the pond with a splash. He raises a brow when he sees Mark. “Shouldn’t I be asking you the same question?”

               “That’s not your place.”

               The boy merely shrugs and picks up another stone.

               Mark takes a step closer. “You should return to the palace. Someone might call on you.”

               “You’re the only one who calls on me at unreasonable hours,” the boy says, his eyes fixed on the pond’s surface. The stone skips three times before sinking.

               “I could have you banished.” Mark’s fingers curl into fists at his sides. “Do you think that your pretty face is enough to grant you amnesty?” It slips out before Mark has realized it, and he internally curses every deity he knows of.

               The boy laughs, all bells and windchimes. “I’m flattered that you find me pretty.”

               Mark’s stomach moves into his throat and the ground seems to tilt. “That’s hardly the point. I’m tired of your insolence and I’m tired of seeing you. I just want to _sleep--_ ”

               “Sleep then.” His eyes land on Mark’s face. “I’m not stopping you.”

               He’s edged in moonlight, it’s dazzling, his eyes capture it like mirrors—Mark takes two steps backward. His heart pounds as swift as hummingbird wings. “I see you when I close my eyes. How am I meant to sleep like that?”

               “His royal highness, dreaming of a lowly servant like me?” The boy’s eyes widen in mock innocence. “How absurd.”

               It’s a quiet anger that boils in Mark’s veins, fueled by fitful sleep and golden skin and a melodic voice. He storms forward and grabs the boy by the shirt collar. Their faces are inches apart and expletives rise to his tongue before he swallows them back. “I’ve done nothing to deserve this. How dare you come here and ruin--”

               The boy is laughing, crescent eyes and pearly teeth and pure music, and Mark’s grip loosens. “You’ve done nothing to deserve a sleepless night? While you lay on silk sheets in that suite of yours, my family struggles to survive because your kingdom _still refuses_ to send aid to the South.”

               Mark’s skin turns icy. “What?”

               “It’s been two years.” His tone is steel and daggers. “Two years of drought. Do you have no sympathy at all?”

               “You’re at war,” Mark says slowly, as if the boy might not know. “With the nomadic clans—My father promised to send help if you ended the fighting.”

               “They attacked first,” the boy hisses. “Why is it our responsibility to call it off?”

               Mark swallows at the fire in his eyes. “You outnumber them ten to one. It’s hardly a fair battle; why can’t you be the bigger person?”

               “Bold words coming from you.”

               Mark releases his hold on the boy’s collar. The words only sting because they’re right. There’s something acidic in his throat – _remorse? Anger?_ – and the servant only stares at him with those eyes swimming in molten moonlight. “Perhaps I can… talk to my father about it.”

               “Don’t bother.” The boy takes a step closer and jabs his finger at Mark’s chest. “You’re just like him, you know. So obsessed with propriety and class that you can’t even extend aid to others unless they give you something for it.”

               Mark takes two steps backward. The accusation hits like a blow to the chest, and he feels an odd sort of guilt eclipse any anger. Did the people really see him that way? The servant’s pretty face is dark with resentment, and a bitter chill sweeps down from the mountains to rustle the tree branches. “Y-you don’t know anything about me or my father. You’ve only been here a few weeks.”

               “I know enough.” With that, the boy turns and heads up the hill, out of the forest and back to the palace.

               Mark stands in shocked silence as the freezing breeze tears him down to bones and nothing else.

♕

               It happens two nights later and sends Mark into blind panic.

               He knows that he’s dreaming, floaty and weightless with his back pressed to something soft. And the servant boy is there, inches from his face, his breath like wine and honey, and Mark feels something hot strike through his chest with incredible force.

               “Have you ever done anything wicked?” The boy murmurs. There’s a knowing look in his eyes, framed in the longest lashes Mark has ever seen.

               “W-wicked?” Mark is having trouble breathing. He realizes belatedly that the boy’s body is pressed against his, molten heat seeping through layers of fabric.

               He leans forward to trail his lips along Mark’s neck. It’s soft and gentle and barely-there, but Mark feels like he’s about to faint. “You and me. Together like this. Forbidden and wicked, wouldn’t you say?” His fingers curl into Mark’s shirt in a way that feels nothing less than demanding.

               And Mark realizes he wants him more than he’s ever wanted anything. “I never cared much for righteousness, anyway,” he breathes, and the boy is looking at him with dark, dark eyes.

               Their lips meet, and it’s fire and alcohol and everything Mark has ever yearned for in his _life_ , and he reaches to tangle his fingers in that tawny hair—

               He wakes with a shout. The sky outside his window is still inky black, and the room is shrouded in a thick silence. He’s damp with sweat, chest heaving, and there’s a poignant nausea at the back of his throat. To think that way, among men… About a _servant_ , no less—

               The door creaks open and Lucas leans inside. His brow is furrowed in concern as he calls, “Your highness? Is everything okay in here? I thought I heard a shout.”

               “Fine,” Mark gasps. “Everything is fine.”

               He doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

♕

               Another week passes.

               Dark smudges appear like spilled ink under Mark’s eyes. He picks at his food, aching for sleep, and his father frowns from across the table.

               “Mark, are you ill? You’ve been listless for days.”

               Mark blinks and pushes his plate away. “I haven’t been sleeping well.”

               “Should I call the physician?”

               “No, no, no.” Mark slumps back in his seat. “I’ll be fine. I’ve just had… A lot on my mind, that’s all. It’s truly nothing.”

               The servant boy enters with a pitcher of water, and Mark flinches. His skin glows in the firelight. He fills their glasses silently, his eyes locked on the floor. They haven’t spoken since that night at the pond, and Mark feels as if he’s suffocating each time he sees him.

               “Father.” It rises to his lips before he’s thought properly. “Don’t you think it’s time to send aid to the Southern Provinces? The drought is still ongoing.”

               Beside him, the servant boy stiffens.

               The king lowers his fork. “Why are you suddenly interested in that, of all things?”

               Mark swallows. He can feel the servant’s gaze on him, heavy and hot. “It’s been several years now, hasn’t it? Haven’t they suffered long enough?”

               His mother scoffs. “Maybe if they stopped fighting like barbarians, we would consider it. That petty war with the nomads is a drain on their resources and manpower. It isn’t our fault.”

               “That’s hardly fair.” The boy’s voice is cold, and Mark sees his grip tighten around the pitcher’s handle. “The nomads attacked first, and it was only to claim the political legitimacy that _you_ constantly refuse them. The war is entirely your fault.”

               The queen’s face darkens, and Mark feels ice in his veins. The servant boy had imposed upon a political conversation, and Mark had seen his mother beat the waitstaff for less. He will certainly be punished for this, and the thought makes Mark’s stomach turn to water.

               His mother rises from her seat and comes to stand before the boy. He doesn’t back down, eyes flashing in the dim firelight, and the look on his face sends a shiver crawling down Mark’s spine.

               _Have you ever done anything wicked?_

               She raises her hand to strike, and Mark moves before he thinks. He’s between them, his chair toppling to the floor, and he grabs his mother’s wrist as tightly as he can.

               “Mother.” He tries to keep his voice even, but there’s a shakiness to it that he can’t hide. He had seen her beat countless servants and had turned a blind eye every time. He had never felt guilty, had never questioned her actions, but this—There is something burning in his chest that he can’t place. “He doesn’t deserve this.”

               She barks out a laugh that is devoid of humor. “Is that so? Perhaps you deserve it more.”

               “That’s enough.” The king’s voice is stern as he places his palms flat against the table. “Mark, return to your seat. Donghyuck, go back to the kitchens. I don’t want to hear another word from you.”

               The servant – _Donghyuck_ – shoots Mark a curious glance before turning away. Relief courses through him in a potent rush, and he drops his mother’s wrist.

               They don’t speak for the rest of the evening. A servant girl replaces Donghyuck in the dining room, and a sigh slips past Mark’s lips. The relief he feels is strong, and he wonders if maybe his father should call for the physician after all. He must certainly be ill.

♕

               The next day brings a meeting with the provincial magistrates, but Mark doesn’t dare bring up the Southern Provinces again. He sits in his seat and fiddles with the brocade on his cuffs. He’s always dressed up for these, sliding into his finest tailcoat and arranging his crown atop his dark styled hair. He had once reveled in it, drunk on the power and prestige, but today he feels uneasy. He hadn’t seen Donghyuck at any of their meals, and there’s an incessant sort of worry gnawing away at his chest. Perhaps the queen had punished him after all—

               “Mark? Are you listening?” His father’s voice drags him back to the task at hand.

               “Yes, of course,” he lies smoothly. He spends the rest of the meeting nodding in feigned interest until the magistrates are escorted out.

               As soon as they leave, Mark rises from his seat and heads for the kitchens. It’s a route he hasn’t taken in years – not since his younger days when he would pilfer snacks from unattended trays – and he tries to ignore the creeping sense of wrongness lingering on his skin.

               He pushes open the door and is met with several pairs of shocked eyes.

               “Y-your highness,” one girl stutters, up to her elbows in soapy water, “What can we do for you?”

               “Is Donghyuck here?” The name feels heavy on his tongue.

               The girl blinks and lowers her gaze. “He’s currently occupied. I can help in his stead if there’s something you need--”

               Mark shakes his head and curls his fingers around the door handle. “Will you please tell him to bring a tea service to my room? I feel a headache coming on and I’d like to relax.”

               She nods quickly, keeping her eyes on the floor.

               Mark rushes back to his room and perches in an armchair near the cold fireplace. The sun is beginning to set, and long shadows stretch across the floor like searching fingers. He watches pink and orange spill across the sky in turns. After several moments he feels jittery, as if he’s been waiting for hours.

               A knock at the door launches his heart into his throat. “Come in,” he calls.

               The door swings inward and Donghyuck is there with a silver tea tray in his hands. He steps into the room and places it in front of Mark, keeping his head bent low. It’s so unlike the fiery Donghyuck of the days prior that Mark rises from his chair.

               “If that’s all you needed, I’ll be going,” Donghyuck says. He moves to leave and blind panic rises in Mark’s chest.

               “Donghyuck, please--”

               His head snaps up at the use of his name. His skin is golden honey in the light of the sunset, his eyes bright and searching, and there’s an ugly purple bruise blooming across his left cheek. Mark feels all the air leave his lungs.

               “She… She hit you,” he breathes. There’s an anger rolling through his veins, hot and fierce, and he takes a step closer.

               Donghyuck’s gaze hardens as he moves one step back. “I’m fine.”

               “You’re not _fine_.” It comes out almost desperate, like a plea on his lips. “Donghyuck, you can’t let her—You don’t deserve to be treated like this--”

               “That’s hardly your concern,” Donghyuck says flatly. “I believe you’re above worrying about a kitchen servant.”

               The words hit like a physical blow and Mark feels sick. He had spent hours, days, weeks thinking about that tousled hair, that sunshine skin, that _voice_ —And yet here he is, buried under class and propriety so thick Donghyuck thinks he doesn’t care. “I’m not above anything. I stood up for you yesterday, if I do recall.” His voice is rising, his fingers are curling into fists, but he can’t stop. “Would I do that if I wasn’t worried? Would I be here, in front of you like this--”

               Donghyuck takes a step closer. His eyes flash in the last remnants of sunlight spilling through the window. “I never asked you to do that. I don’t want your _pity_. Why don’t you do something _useful_ instead of worrying about me like I’m a wounded animal?”

               “I’m doing everything I can!” The air in the room feels too thin to breathe. Donghyuck’s body is inches from his own, and his skin prickles at the proximity. The heat is nearly unbearable and surely he must be ill—

               “Broaching the subject over the dinner table? Right, I’m sure that’s everything you could be doing. It must have been exhausting, too, considering you’ve never worked a day in your life. Go on and feign worry a little bit more; I’m positively dying to see if it changes anything.”

               Mark sucks in a breath. “I’m not _feigning_ anything, Donghyuck.” It’s maddening: Donghyuck’s breath against his face, the fire in his eyes, the way he’s leaning toward Mark as if challenging him is all he was made to do.

               “Prove it,” Donghyuck hisses. He turns to leave, pulling open the door, and Mark is moving before his thoughts can catch up. His fingers latch onto Donghyuck’s shirt sleeve and tug backward, spinning him around until they’re face-to-face. He reaches up to ghost his fingers along that angry bruise, and Donghyuck flinches.

               “It hurts me to see you like this,” Mark whispers. He thought it would be a relief to say it aloud, but instead his chest feels taut as bowstrings. “I know it seems absurd; I must be ill—I can’t stand the thought of her hurting you…”

               “Then do something about it.” Donghyuck’s voice is softer than Mark has ever heard it. But there’s still a challenge in it, there’s still fire trapped behind his irises, and Mark feels unsteady on his feet.

               He takes a step closer, and Donghyuck doesn’t back away. Mark lets his hand drop from Donghyuck’s cheek to the side of his neck. His skin is warm under his fingertips, and he finds himself wondering if his lips will taste the way he imagines— “I don’t know what to do.”

               “Do whatever you think is right.” The sun has fully set, and Donghyuck’s face is cast into shadow. The room is cold with no fire in the hearth, but Mark can feel heat radiating from him in waves, seeping under his waistcoat and raising goosebumps along his skin.

               “None of this is right,” he breathes. His fingers curl inward, nails barely grazing Donghyuck’s neck. He doesn’t miss Donghyuck’s sharp intake of breath. “I want what I cannot have.”

               Donghyuck takes a step closer. “You’re royalty, _your highness._ There is nothing you cannot have.” It’s still there, the sarcasm, the undercurrent of a challenge, and it sends a shiver racing across Mark’s body. He drops his hand to Donghyuck’s waist, fingers digging into the rough fabric of his shirt, and he _wants_ —

               “Then kiss me,” he whispers.

               It hangs in the air between them, heavy and thick, and there’s a silence that stretches so long Mark nearly backs away. But then Donghyuck moves and his hands are in Mark’s hair, their bodies are pressed flush, and their lips are melting together in a way that has Mark sighing. He brings his other hand to Donghyuck’s waist and grips as tightly as he can. Donghyuck gasps against his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair, and it’s lightning down Mark’s spine. Donghyuck’s body is rigid against his, all tense lines and angles. Mark briefly wonders how far he should go.

               But then he lets his tongue glide along Donghyuck’s lower lip before catching it between his teeth, and Donghyuck _whimpers._ It’s the prettiest sound Mark has ever heard and he’ll do anything to hear it again, louder, needier—

               It all devolves into a manner that is far from gentle. Mark’s hands find their way under Donghyuck’s shirt, mapping the soft skin with his fingertips, and Donghyuck pushes Mark’s tailcoat from his shoulders until it lands in a heap on the floor. Mark’s fingernails rake down his back and Donghyuck whines, his fingers scrambling along the buttons of Mark’s waistcoat.

               “Your highness,” he gasps, and it’s all Mark needs to hear. Donghyuck’s shirt is on the floor, followed by Mark’s waistcoat, and Donghyuck’s hands are insistent as he pushes Mark backward. They collapse onto the silk sheets, Donghyuck straddling his hips, and _oh—_ He’s so pretty like this, honey skin and parted lips and bright eyes, and Mark vows to never let anyone else touch him again. He brings his lips to Donghyuck’s neck in wet, open-mouthed kisses that leave him shaking. Donghyuck curls his fingers into Mark’s dress shirt, tugging harshly at the fabric, and Mark nips at his skin.

               The sudden sting has Donghyuck moaning, high and breathy as his back arches, and it’s straight alcohol in Mark’s veins. It’s addicting and all-consuming, and he knows he won’t rest until he has more. He turns until Donghyuck is pressed against the sheets, biting and sucking at his neck, and Donghyuck’s hands tug Mark’s shirt over his head. He shudders at Donghyuck’s curious fingers trailing fire over his skin.

               “You’re beautiful,” he gasps against his collarbone, and Donghyuck’s hands still for the briefest of instants.

               “Beautiful enough to grant me amnesty?” He whispers harshly, his breath hot against Mark’s ear. He digs his fingers into Mark’s skin before catching his earlobe between his teeth.

               “Yes,” Mark whimpers. He feels as if he’s melting, turning to liquid under Donghyuck’s touch, and it will never, ever be enough. His fingers trail to his hips, dipping under the waistband of his pants, and the noise Donghyuck makes in the back of his throat is a heady fire.

               “We shouldn’t,” he gasps, but his hips are already rocking forward and he looks broken and desperate, his head tilting back into the plush pillows.

               “Why not?” Mark’s fingernails graze along his hipbones.

               Donghyuck shudders. “You know this is wrong. If anyone finds out--” It’s barely a whisper.

               Mark leans forward then, his chest flush against Donghyuck’s, their lips only centimeters apart, and he can’t bring himself to care. He would let the entire empire crumble if Donghyuck asked. “I never cared much for righteousness,” he breathes, and he slots their lips together in a kiss so heavy it has Donghyuck arching against him.

               And Mark, crown prince and heir apparent, decides he doesn’t need silk brocade and velvet curtains. Having Donghyuck like this, pretty and pliant underneath him, is more than enough. He’s had an easy life, a privileged life—but this is his greatest privilege of all.

               He knows it, and he doesn’t feel guilty.

**Author's Note:**

> me: only became an nctzen a few months ago  
> my brain: write markhyuck  
> me: why?  
> my brain: you gotta


End file.
